


The Bloedzuiger

by impalaloompa



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, depictions of blood and gore, jaskier has to look after grealt after a fight with a monster goes horribly wrong, soft moments, worried/jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:23:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalaloompa/pseuds/impalaloompa
Summary: He was losing too much blood, he felt lightheaded and his vision swam.The smell of his blood was driving the Bloedzuiger wild and their attacks became wilder and more desperate as he struggled to fend them off.He rotated round, casting Igni again but the sparks fizzled out and he felt his energy drain.The beats advanced on him.This is it, he thought, this is how I die.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 196





	The Bloedzuiger

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated.

“Are you mad?”

“No.”

“So sharpening knives this close to midnight is a new hobby then?”

“Hm.”

Jaskier watched the Witcher a moment, biting his lower lip as Geralt ground the blades with sharp strokes.

Before he could open his mouth again Geralt fixed him with his amber glare.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he grumbled.

“Can’t get comfortable. Everything hurts,” the Bard touched his split lip absently.

Geralt focused back on his knives.

“Look,” Jaskier shuffled, “I’m sorry. Well, no. Actually, I’m not sorry. Gods Geralt, what was I supposed to do? Just roll over and let that man spit in your face? You may be used to such… such… rudeness and disrespect but I certainly am not and there was no way I was letting him get away with treating you like that.”

“You hit him with your notebook,” Geralt didn’t look at him.

“He wouldn’t apologise, and I was – I was angry.”

Geralt grunted.

“I didn’t mean to start a bar fight,” Jaskier sounded a little sheepish.

“Well you did,” the Witcher held his blade up to the firelight to inspect it.

Jaskier prodded his tender ribs and hissed in pain.

“It was exciting though wasn’t it? I mean, to just… brawl like that? I get why you do it.”

“I don’t ‘brawl.’ It was stupid. You got lucky.”

“Maybe I did, but you have to admit, that punch I threw was fucking excellent.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier let his eyes linger on Geralt’s rough movements as the Witcher started on another blade.

“It’s my fault we got kicked out the tavern,” he lay back on his bedroll, looking up at the barely visible stars through the canopy of leaves above, ignoring the ache that throbbed through every part of his body, “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up Bard,” Geralt hummed.

Jaskier smiled to himself.

***

Jaskier was sore and stiff the next morning and struggled to keep up with Roach as Geralt sat astride her, keeping her steady.

“-and yes, I admit that she was a very attractive woman and maybe it was foolish of me to dismiss her request but I have feelings too Geralt, and I could tell she just wanted to use me to get back at her husband,” Jaskier huffed, keeping pace with the chestnut mare, trying to distract himself from the pain, “Is there perhaps a chance you could slow down a little?”

“Why? Regretting last night, are we?” there was almost a smirk twitching the Witcher’s lips.

“As I once told the Baron of Yefren, there are no regrets when defending a friend,” the Bard resolved, glancing up at Geralt.

Geralt kept his stoic gaze on the road ahead.

“As stupid ideas go, that bar fight wasn’t the worst,” Jaskier adjusted the strap of his lute travel case, “Many have done stupider things for much less and stupid things can make legend if they were worth it. And what someone deems as stupid, may not correspond with another’s definition of stupid. I mean, what is the height of stupidity anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt gruffed, “How tall are you?”

Jaskier gasped, indignation burning across his face.

“That – you – how dare – are you trying to hurt my feelings Geralt?”

“Hm,” was all the Witcher said.

He stopped listening to the Bard’s incoherent outrage as they approached a village. Geralt frowned at how deserted it seemed. There was no one going about, and it was eerily silent.

“Jaskier, shut it,” he growled, sliding off Roach.

Jaskier hurried after him as Geralt stalked through the buildings. Eventually they came to an Inn, The Red Duck, and Jaskier peered through the window as Geralt paused by the door.

“It’s busy in there,” he glanced at the Witcher, “Something’s going on.”

“Hm.”

Geralt barged through the door, deliberately letting it groan on its hinges.

Every face in the room snapped to stare at him. Most of the village was here, sat, stood, leaning around the table where four soldiers drooped, covered in muck and blood. 

Jaskier peered round the door, eyes wide.

“You,” one of the villagers stood up, “You’re the Witcher.”

“Geralt. Of Rivia,” Geralt grumbled.

A look of relief rippled through the villagers. The soldiers remained grim.

“You can help us.” “He can help us.” “Will he help us?” the murmurs sped round the room.

One of the soldiers lifted his head.

“Join us Witcher, you might as well, now you’re here.”

The crowd parted to allow Geralt to approach the table. Jaskier was left to perch on a stool at the bar, his blue gaze flicking from face to face with curiosity.

Geralt sank into a chair and folded his arms across his chest.

“What happened to you?” he growled.

The soldier who had spoken before swallowed hard. His companions kept their heads down.

Geralt could see that they each supported injuries, cuts, bruises, and were all exhausted and scared.

“The villages around here have been plagued by Bloedzuiger for months now. They took over the lake a day north from here and grow increasingly daring about where they attack, even traveling downriver and into the farmlands,” the soldier blinked quickly, breathing shallow.

“Sorry,” Jaskier piped up, notebook propped open on one knee as he scribbled, “What is a Bloedzuiger?”

“Like a big leech, but with tree trunk thick legs and spikes on the ends of their arms. They swallow their victims whole and spit out what their stomach acid can’t digest. Also, they explode when they die, spraying everything nearby with that acid,” Geralt gruffed, keeping his eyes fixed on the soldier.

“Right,” Jaskier paled a little, “Good.”

“My unit was sent by the local Baron to dispatch the beasts,” the soldier continued.

“How many of you?” Geralt narrowed his eyes.

“Twenty-six, sir,” the soldier grimaced and lowered his head.

“Hm,” the Witcher grunted, “And how many Bloedzuiger?”

“Three or four,” the soldier twitched with embarrassment, even though against one of the monsters, 26 humans wouldn’t have stood a chance. 

Every villager had their eyes on the Witcher, waiting for what he was going to say. 

“We can pay you,” one of them chipped in, “For your trouble.”

“Fine,” Geralt stood.

The soldier looked relieved, if not a little worried.

Thanks spilled from the villagers and many tried to shake his hand as he made his way back to the Bard.

“So, we’re off again are we? Another quest to slay a monster?” Jaskier pocketed his notebook and jumped off the stool.

“Not we. Just me,” Geralt strode past him out of the Inn.

“But -?” Jaskier rushed after him.

“It’s too dangerous Jaskier,” the Witcher spun to face him.

“When has that ever stopped me before?” the Bard insisted.

“No. Not this time. Not against Bloedzuiger. You’ll just get in my way.”

Jaskier tried not to show his hurt as he followed Geralt back to Roach.

Geralt sighed as he took her reigns and glanced at Jaskier, his amber eyes soft with… affection.

“I don’t want you getting harmed,” he grumbled.

“Fine,” Jaskier scowled.

“Just don’t get into any more bar fights while I’m away,” Geralt mused as he swung himself up onto his mare.

“No promises,” Jaskier flashed him a wide grin.

“If I’m not back in two days, assume I’m dead,” Geralt called over his shoulder as he spurred Roach on.

“Very funny Geralt!” Jaskier shouted after him, trying not to let the Witcher’s words twist in his gut.

He watched the Witcher ride away and thumbed his temples before turning back to the Inn.

***

With Roach swift of foot and the roads flat, Geralt reached the lake just before dusk.

He tied his mare a ways from the shoreline, making sure she had plenty to eat and drink, then slowly approached the vast stretch of water.

The lake was still, not even a breeze disturbed the water. Its glassy surface reflected the golden clouds of the setting sun. Trees lined its shore to the east and rolling moors rising into mountains to the west. The lake itself stretched for a good few miles in most directions and Geralt could see how attractive this place would be for a few hungry Bloedzuiger.  
He paced the shoreline, shingle crunching underfoot and waited. Bloedzuiger were attracted to the heat of their victims and if they were in the lake, sooner of later they’d come to him.

Geralt unsheathed his silver sword, inspecting its sharp blade and runic inscriptions. Like most monsters, Bloedzuiger were sensitive to silver, as well as fire.

As the sun finally sank behind the horizon and the moon took over the night sky, there was still no sign of the beasts and Geralt sat down heavily on a fallen tree.

He scanned the water again with his acute vision, narrowing his eyes in frustration.

“What am I doing here Roach?” he called back to his mare. If she heard him, she didn’t respond and Geralt just shook his head.

The minutes drifted by and he could feel his head getting heavy. He blinked himself awake and got up to pace again.

There was a noise, faint, soft, like the ripple of water, and Geralt turned his attention to the lake.

He paused, ears straining. It came again, like someone had dropped a tiny stone into the water, enough to create a disturbance.

The Witcher stalked to the water’s edge, boots just shy of getting wet. The strange silence now pressing in.

The lake erupted in front of him and he stumbled back as streams of water and a foul stench washed over him.

The Bloedzuiger screeched as it advanced, huge and writhing, its hundreds of teeth gnashing the air.

Geralt lifted his sword.

Another of the beasts heaved free of the water beside the first and they lurched towards him.

Geralt ducked the swinging spiked arms and slashed his sword through flesh.

A shriek sounded above his head and he pirouetted out of the way as the monster flailed.

He jabbed at the second Bloedzuiger, narrowly missing fangs in his face and jumped out of the way as it crashed into its kin.

They snarled and snapped, both rounding on him. Preparing for another quick in and out attack, Geralt didn’t see the third and fourth Bloedzuiger rise out of the lake behind him and he howled in pain as his shoulder was sliced open.

Geralt dropped his sword, hissing through his teeth as blood made the ground underfoot slippery. He managed to snatch his sword up and spun round, casting the Sign Igni.

A jet of hot flame scorched the nearest monster and it thrashed, falling backwards into the water. The smell of burned flesh soured the air.

It rose again, angry welts covering its body, dripping and oozing its way back to shore.

Geralt threw himself to the side as one of the beasts lunged at him, gouging a deep gash along its side.

Again, he cast Igni and the flame hit the Bloedzuiger square in the face. It screeched and writhed as the fire melted its flesh and it keeled over, jerking and stinking as the flames devoured it.

Geralt spun away and ducked behind the fallen tree as the creature’s body swelled then burst, spraying putrid acid everywhere.

One down.

He was panting hard. His injured shoulder slowing him down.

The three remaining Bloedzuiger stomped about the shoreline, their poor sight struggling to pick out where he had gone.

The Witcher stole a breath then rushed the nearest one, swinging his sword in a neat arc above his head and burying it deep where the spiked arm met the thick body.

He cast Aard at another, but the telekinetic wave just seemed to bounce off it, making it sway a little but not forcing it back and stunning it.

“Fuck,” Geralt seethed, ripping his sword free and grimacing as pain lacerated through his shoulder. 

He was losing too much blood, he felt lightheaded and his vision swam. 

The smell of his blood was driving the Bloedzuiger wild and their attacks became wilder and more desperate as he struggled to fend them off.

He rotated round, casting Igni again but the sparks fizzled out and he felt his energy drain.

The beats advanced on him.

This is it, he thought, this is how I die.

***

Jaskier was growing restless.

He had spent the first night entertaining the villagers in the inn with songs and stories, as was his trade. He had received free drink and a meal for his efforts and slept well in the comfortable bed provided by the innkeeper, for a fair price of course.

He had explored the small village which hadn’t taken him long, written down some thoughts and musings in his notebook, listened to tales told by the four soldiers who were staying in the inn to recover before heading back to the Baron, attracted the attention of the innkeepers daughter and entertained the idea for a while before the innkeepers scowl deterred him, dismissing her advances so he could focus on another evening of lute playing. 

He hadn’t slept as well that night.

The innkeeper’s daughter had served him breakfast, despondent and not meeting his gaze, which he had eaten quickly before heading out to walk around the village again.

He was now perched on a large boulder on the outskirts of the village, lute resting on his lap and gazing out at the direction he had watched Geralt leave in.

His chest was tight with worry and his stomach churned. His usually chipper demeaner had faded and his expression was pensive as the warm midday sun passed behind a cloud.

It had been two days. Where was the Witcher?

Jaskier chewed his bottom lip.

“Fuck it,” he rose, putting his lute back in its travel case, slid off the bolder and marched back to the inn.

He paused, heart in his mouth and then spotted the innkeeper.

“My good fellow,” Jaskier was brisk but polite, “I require your good services once again.”

“How can I help you?” the man stood straight, leaving the cloth on the table he had been wiping.

“I need directions to the lake and I need to borrow a horse. I can pay you,” he added quickly.

The innkeeper eyed him. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the Bard. Jaskier oozed this charm and sense of ease, and he hadn’t taken advantage of his daughter when she so readily threw herself at him, but he was reserved all the same.

“What for?” he folded his arms across his chest.

“I think the Witcher might be in trouble,” Jaskier kept his voice steady, trying not to betray how panicked he truly was.

The innkeeper contemplated this for a moment.

“My old nag will get you there sure enough. But I’ll need an assurance.”

“An assurance?”

“So I know you won’t just disappear with her,” the innkeeper narrowed his eyes.

Jaskier, offended, opened his mouth to quip something but quickly checked himself.

“Leave your lute,” the man indicated the instrument with a jerk of his head.

Jaskier hesitated. He didn’t go anywhere without his lute. It was like an extra arm. Part of him. His most prized possession. But, he supposed, that was the whole point.

He removed the lute from his shoulder and passed it to the innkeeper.

“I’ll be back for that,” Jaskier grumbled.

“I’m counting on it,” the man blinked at him, “The black one, in the stable, she’s mine. Alfreya. I won’t take no coin from you Master Bard on account of your Witcher trying to help us and all. Follow the road north out of the village, keep on it until you hit trees then take the path through them. When you come to a large stone, jagged and sandy in colour, follow the path behind it and sure enough you’ll find the lake.”

Jaskier thanked him, went to gather his pack from his room and hurried out of the inn. With not many hours of full daylight left, he hoped the old mare would be able to keep up with the pace he wanted to set.

“Hey girl,” he stroked the horse on the nose, and she chuffed at him, “I need your help.”

There was a look in her beetle black eyes, and he was pretty sure she could feel his urgency.

He attached his pack to her saddle, mounted and took a breath. It had been a while since he had ridden but it quickly came back to him and he ushered her out of the stable.

“I’m coming Geralt,” he promised, “I’m coming.”

***

The black mare slowed as they approached the trees, her flanks were heaving, and her head drooped.

Jaskier patted her neck, encouraging her onward. He had ridden hard, pushing the horse in his rising tension.

The sun was slowly sinking behind the horizon and Jaskier had no intention to stop for camp. He strained to see in the growing darkness and had to trust the horse to see where they were going.

Eventually they came to the rock the innkeeper had described and Jaskier recoiled at the foul stench in the air. 

“Geralt?” he called, swinging himself off the mare and leading her towards the lake.

He spotted something moving through the trees and quickened his step, heart thundering in his chest.

He burst through a thicket and stopped dead. There was Roach, tied to a tree. Stamping and snorting when she recognised him.

“Hey girl,” Jaskier stretched a hand out to her and she pressed her nose to his palm, eyes alert, ears back. 

“Where is he Roach? Huh?” he grit his teeth. If she was here, the Witcher couldn’t be far away. He’d never just leave her like this. Unless…

He left the black mare with Roach and stumbled towards the body of water he could now just about see through the trees, bathed in moonlight.

The smell was now almost unbearable, and he choked back the bile rising in his throat.

“Geralt?” he shouted again, stumbling a little as he forced himself on.

He froze in horror, hand coming to his mouth as he gaped at the carnage on the shoreline. Hulking masses of black flesh were slopped all over the shingle. Yellow acid formed still hissing pools in about every direction. Scorch marks scarred the fallen tree about a meter from the water. 

Jaskier bent double and was violently sick. He stood for a moment, shaking, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, then gingerly stepped among the debris. 

“Geralt!” he yelled, his voice echoing off the still water.

He slid a little as his boot stepped in something wet. In the moonlight, Jaskier could see the smear of scarlet blood.

“Fuck,” he wailed. He looked about frantically, searching for any more signs of the Witcher.

There, not far from the fallen tree was the silver sword. Jaskier snatched it up, it was lighter than he expected, and slid it into his belt. Then he noticed more blood. Droplets. Larger pools where it had coagulated. Stretched out smears which told him Geralt had dragged himself along the ground in this direction. 

He forced himself not to be sick again as he followed the Witcher’s blood, his friends’ blood, back towards the trees.

He could hear nothing but the thundering of his own heart as he feared the worst.

“GERALT!” he shouted, desperation tainting his voice.

There was a small noise, Jaskier almost missed it but… there it was again. He pushed through the bracken and there he was. The Witcher. Laying on the forest floor on his side, bloody and barely moving.

“Fuck,” Jaskier was by his side in an instant, “Geralt? Geralt it me. It’s Jaskier.”

His voice was trembling as he gently shook him.

There was a nasty gash starting at the top of his shoulder and going down past the shoulder blade, right to the bottom of the rib cage. It was still oozing blood, and Jaskier could see how badly torn the muscles were, almost exposing bone.

“Geralt,” his voice broke. Panic and guilt flared up inside him. He didn’t know what to do.

“Jaskier?” the Witcher’s voice was barely a whisper and he opened one amber eye.

“Thank the Gods,” Jaskier sat back in relief, running his hands through his hair.

“How bad it is?” Geralt asked, already knowing the answer from the look on the Bard’s pale face.

Jaskier could only shake his head.

Geralt sucked in a breath, grimacing in pain as he shuffled slightly to get a better look at Jaskier.

“Jaskier, I need you to close the wound,” Geralt husked.

“W-what?” Jaskier stumbled, distress crossing his young face.

“If you don’t, it will get infected and I will die. Do you understand?”

“But I don’t – “ 

“I’ll talk you through it. Get my pack from Roach. Quick now.”

Jaskier scrambled to his feet and did as he was told. Geralt had to hope the Bard could keep his nerve through this. He loathed the fact that Jaskier was seeing him like this, never mind having to perform surgery on him as well. He had never wanted to put Jaskier in a position like this, but now he had no choice.

Jaskier returned quickly, trembling, determination set on his face. 

“Build a small fire,” Geralt let his eyes close for a second as pain stabbed through him. 

He had to remain conscious, he told himself, he needed Jaskier and Jaskier needed him.

“Good, now in my pack, a small pan. Water. Boil it,” the Witcher rasped between shallow breaths.

Jaskier poured water from Geralt’s water skin into the pan and let it sit over the flames until it was bubbling.

“Help me out of this,” Geralt twisted slightly, indicating the leather studded tunic and white shirt underneath. 

It was a struggle and he hissed in pain, Jaskier resorting to cut the material away with Geralt’s knife rather than trying to lift the garments over his head, but eventually the clothing was off and the true extent of the injury made Jaskier pale. Geralt relaxed into the ground again, breathing heavily. 

“Soap. Wash your hands. Discard water. Boil more.”

Jaskier did what he was told quickly and in complete silence. Geralt could practically taste his uncertainty and fear.

“The white strips of cloth. Get them. Let the water cool and then clean the wound.”

Again, Jaskier followed his instructions with haste, his blue eyes burning with something Geralt had never seen before.

Jaskier paused, damp cloth held above the gash which was starting to emit a strange heat.

“It’s okay,” Geralt reassured him.

When the cloth brushed against his tender flesh, Geralt had to force himself not to cry out. 

Jaskier was gentle but thorough, every now and then tipping the water into the wound to flush out blood and muck. When he was satisfied, he sat back.

“Needle. Hold the needle over the flame until the point glows red, then let it cool and thread the sinew.”

Geralt was shivering and not just with the cold. He could feel the anxiety rolling off Jaskier in waves and hoped the Bard had enough strength for this next part.

“Thank you. For coming to find me,” he grumbled as Jaskier threaded the needle. Jaskier flashed him a small smile that disappeared as quickly as it formed.

He shuffled closer to Geralt, his eyes watering, his hands shaking.

“You can do this,” Geralt looked at him, “I need you to do this.”

Jaskier took a deep breath then pushed the needle into Geralt’s flesh, just above where the gash started on his shoulder.

Again, Geralt struggled to not make a sound, gritting his teeth as Jaskier worked. He didn’t want to put the Bard off.

Jaskier blinked away tears as he stitched the Witcher back together, closing the wound, although not with a healer’s precision, but not untidily. 

He tied the sinew off, cut it with the knife and leaned back, his breathing slow and hard.

The skin around the newly patched wound felt tight and uncomfortable but Geralt ignored it as he let his eyes flutter a moment.

“Jaskier. There is a bottle, in my pack. It has a paste in it. Echinacea and honey. Spread it over the stitches. Fights infection,” he rumbled.

Jaskier found the bottle and dipped two fingers into it, scooped out some of the pink paste. He gingerly dabbed it down the wound then washed his fingers in the remaining water.

Geralt could already feel its soothing effects and he was starting to fall asleep.

“Jaskier,” he managed to say, “Thank you.”

Jaskier watched Geralt drift into unconsciousness, stood on unsteady feet and had to pause a moment when his stomach threatened to spill its contents again, then retrieved Geralt’s blanket from his pack, laid it over the Witcher and sat back by the fire, absently pressing more wood into it and stoking the flames.

He looked at Geralt, heart trembling, stomach quivering. He took Geralt’s sliver sword from his belt and laid it next to the Witcher. He leaned back against Geralt’s pack.

It all finally crashed down on him and he brought his knees to his chin, wrapped his arms round himself, and cried.

***

The early morning sun filtered through the leaves onto their makeshift camp. Jaskier had eventually fallen into a disturbed sleep, images from the night’s events flashing through his dreams. 

When he woke, his body ached. The tension he had been holding had cramped his muscles and he felt drained and weary.

He looked over to where Geralt was still sleeping and rubbed his face with his hands. Slowly he stood, stretching his sore limbs and kicking his foot through the ashes of the extinct fire.

He knew he should probably eat something, but he wasn’t hungry. He did take a mouthful of water from Geralt’s water skin.

It felt very empty, so he wandered back to the lake.

He stopped dead when faced with the remains of the battle again. In daylight, everything looked…

Jaskier crouched down, trying to steady himself, his head resting on his arm.

A hand gripped onto his shoulder and Jaskier jumped. He looked up into Geralt’s warm amber eyes, threw himself to his feet and hugged the Witcher.

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just held Jaskier as the Bard fought back more tears, his breath shuddering through his small frame.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled when Jaskier pulled back to look at him, “So sorry.”

“So you should be, you fucking arse. I thought I’d lost you. Never do that to me again,” fire blazed in his eyes.

“Hm,” Geralt pulled him tight against his chest again and felt Jaskier curl into him.

“I don’t know what I would have done,” the Bard’s voice was small, and hurt, and it broke Geralt’s heart.

“Come on,” he led Jaskier back to the makeshift camp and sat down, rotating his shoulder then pulling his pack closer to dig out a clean shirt.

Jaskier sat opposite him, eyes never leaving Geralt as if he was afraid the Witcher might disappear.

“So, what happened?” he asked.

Geralt sighed and recounted the battle. 

“I thought that was it. I was done for. But somehow, I managed to land a blow that caused one of the Bloedzuiger to crash into another. In the distraction I summoned the last of my strength and cast Igni. It was just enough. I got out of the way before they exploded and dragged myself into the cover of the forest. I thought that I was going to die there, in that spot but the higher powers had other plans,” he caught Jaskier’s blue gaze with his own and smiled softly.

“Yeah, thank the Gods,” Jaskier grumbled.

“Are you going to be okay?” Geralt blinked at him.

Jaskier’s chest tightened.

“Are YOU going to be okay?” he retorted.

“I heal quickly,” Geralt shrugged on a black shirt and closed his pack, “Jaskier…”

“I don’t ever want to have to do that again. Do you hear me?” Jaskier snapped, “Having to patch you up like that…”

He swallowed hard. All the emotions from last night rushing back to the surface again.

“I’m sorry,” was all Geralt could say.

Jaskier sighed, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. 

“Are you well enough to travel?” he asked.

“Hm.”

“Good, because we’ve a horse to return, a lute to pick up and a large bag of coin to collect.”

***

Jaskier had been uncharacteristically quiet on their journey back to the village. 

Geralt couldn’t help but feel guilty for the Bard’s suffering.

He would have tried to make small talk if he knew how to go about it, but he had never been good at conversation for the sake of conversation, so they rode in silence.

Jaskier returned the black mare to the stable behind the inn and followed Geralt into The Red Duck.

They were greeted with enthusiasm, the soldiers among the villagers, asking if Geralt had rid them of their pest. 

As Geralt nodded and a bag of coins was pressed into his hands, he watched Jaskier speak to the innkeeper and a smile lit up the Bard’s face when he was handed back his lute.

Not wanting to spend another night, they left the village, the Witcher astride his mare, the Bard keeping pace beside.

Jaskier was strumming thoughtfully as Geralt kept his amber eyes fixed ahead.

“That won’t be the last time, will it?” Jaskier spoke suddenly, catching Geralt off guard, “Having to sew you up after a fight?”

“Realistically, probably not,” Geralt decided honesty was better than telling the Bard what he wanted to hear, “Sorry.”

Jaskier snorted.

“Don’t apologise. Occupational hazard and anyway, I signed on to this bullshit, so I guess this comes as part of the deal.”

“Jaskier – “

“You’re my friend Geralt. I’ll be there when you need me,” Jaskier nodded, mind made up.

“Hm,” Geralt grumbled, affection for the Bard lighting up his face.

“When the Witcher faced his defeat,  
And the outcome was looking bleak,  
Who else could fight so hard?  
Along came the humble Bard.”

Jaskier sang.

“Please tell me that’s not going to be in your next song,” the Witcher grimaced. 

“Who knows?” Jaskier winked at him, “Maybe it’s time I sang my own praises for once.”

Geralt rolled his eyes at him and Jaskier laughed. Such a good, pure sound and it had Geralt smiling too.


End file.
